by Faith Hunter
Eli, weapon in hand, held down and at his side, opened the door, accepted the package from the messenger, and carried it to the kitchen table. Carefully, he inspected the envelope for mundane traps, like miniature explosives and poisons.
From his desk, Alex said, “I had Derek drill through the floor above and install hidden cameras in Raisin’s office while we were in Asheville. It’s not downloaded to the main security system, but to a separate system. Just in case someone talked. I’ve scanned it once a week for the last three months, but I’m overdue for a look-see. I’ll access it and go back over the footage.”
“What about her quarters?” Eli asked, shining a Wood’s light over the package and the palm of his hand where he had touched the legal-sized envelope.
“No cameras there. There’s some things I do not need to see. Might scar me for life.”
Eli’s mouth softened in his version of a smile. “Tia hasn’t already done that?”
Alex didn’t look away from his systems. “She’s working on it, but we’ve only been back to NOLA for a few days. So far, I’m holding my own.”
“Too much information, guys,” I said.
Tia was a former member of Katie’s Ladies, and she was also learning about computers from Alex, which was odd because Tia had always appeared to be . . . not stupid, but . . . slow, intellectually. Alex and Tia had been on and off again in virtual reality for months. I really didn’t need to know what they had been up to in person, though if Tia and Alex were involved, that might be a good thing. She had been broken as a young woman, and Alex would be an innocent and gentle partner.
Alex ducked his head farther to hide his grin.
Oh yeah. Something-something between them. Good.
“Nothing I can detect on the envelope,” Eli said, after spraying the envelope with something vinegary and then something alkaline. He went to the back of the house to the old laundry room, which he had remodeled after one of the bloodbath events over the years. He came back carrying a heavy-duty shield made of clear, thick polycarbonate, a riot shield like cops use, but this one had a sky-blue band across the bottom, signaling that it was a null shield too, giving him resistance to active magical workings.
My heart shot into my throat. Beast-fast, I grabbed Alex’s shoulder and pulled his rolling chair across the living room and along the wall that placed the weapons room between us and the kitchen. It was a testament to our violent lives that Alex didn’t resist or ask why. My last vision of Eli was him pulling a knife from a pocket. I heard the sound of paper being cut, slicing sounds, followed by the shush of leather and paper and the ripple sound of pages flipping. A plastic-clatter followed as the shield was placed on the floor.
“All clear,” Eli said.
Alex slid back to the desk, the chair rollers whirring over wood and the fancy new rugs. I walked into the kitchen. Eli looked fine, not even a sheen of perspiration, while I was ever so slightly clammy.
Eli said, “Ernestine sent over a journal kept by a vamp named Malita Del Omo. She says to read pages sixty-three and sixty-four.” Eli opened the journal to the pages and the translations to the same. Comparing back and forth, he read, “I am distraught. I shall be given to another master. The life I have lived here is over. My Ka and my Adan have been sent away by the Master of the City, the terrible Leo Pellissier. He has judged that they have performed unspeakable black arts, using Mithrans and blood-servants as test subjects. But I am still here. I still live. I am to be given away as scion to another. Given away.”
“Like a slave,” I murmured.
Eli slid his finger along the translation, and also along the original text. “It’s some version of Spanish. Here it says, ‘Adan and Ka were separated, and Ka was sent to two outclan priestesses in Europe’.”
“Which ones?” I asked.
“Bethany and Edith.”
“Well dang,” I said mildly. “Bethany is dead, and I never heard of an Edith.”
“Checking records on an outclan named Edith,” Alex said from his desk. “And nothing. Nada.”
Eli gave me his battlefield smile. “Puzzles, constructed from ancient mysteries and archaic riddles, bound up in antiquated enigmas.” He lifted his brows, faintly amused. “It’s better than being shot at.”
I took photos of the translations and the journal and sent them to the B-twin Onorios who were dealing with my messes here and back in Asheville, as well as to Koun, though the vamp was still asleep for the day.
Brandon responded immediately, calling.
I answered, “Yellowrock here. Call is on speaker to Eli and Alex.”
Brandon said, “My Queen. Adan was punished many times for misuse of magic and experiments into blood magic. He finally went too far, and was supposed to have been dispatched by the Enforcer of Clan Pellissier. Ka was banished and killed in a shipwreck off the coast of Spain on the way to be trained by two Onorios. Or so it was said.” Or so it was said was vamp-talk for it was unproven gossip.
“Where was Bethany living at the time?”
“She spent a lot of time in Europe so she could have been there when Ka was sent.”
“I see,” I said, walking around the sofa in the living room, a slow circle, thinking as I walked. “We know Adan lived. And Sabina saw Ka, or an illusion of Ka, the night the cemetery burned.”
I dropped onto the sofa in the living room and leaned back, pulling a throw over my feet. Eli sat beside me. I asked Brandon, “What kind of black magic would result in a magical skinwalker being separated from her master, and both being sent into exile?”
“There are few overlapping forms of black magic,” Brandon said. “However, in every magical creed and practice, sacrifice, blood, and eating the bodies of the dying while they are still alive has always been the most foul of blood magic and black magic.”
He was right. It was. It was how skinwalkers became u’tlun’ta. It was how witches went to the dark side. It was the way the Sons of Darkness, both of whom might have been among the rare male witches who survived to adulthood, created the vampires. It was indeed the most foul magic.
Quietly he added, “Many believe that is what happened between Cain and Abel. One ate the other.”
That wasn’t canon, so I ignored it, though it was thought provoking. “Who is Malita Del Omo, the woman who wrote the journal? And what did she know about Ka N’vsita?”
“You can ask them yourselves if you wish,” Brandon said. “Malita Del Omo and Soledad Martinez are two of the more ancient Mithrans in the Americas. Both of them studied black magic a century ago, and they now live on an estate near Breaux Bridge. But I’ll warn you. Though they looked fine the last time I saw them and have maintained their physical regeneration, both are mentally”—he hesitated—“unstable. They have lived mostly alone for over a hundred years.”
“I could use a break,” I said.
“I’ll text you their address. I suggest you take the helo. It isn’t far by air, but the drive will take quite some time.” The call ended.
Eli’s cell vibrated and he said, “The address isn’t far as the crow flies, but Brandon’s right. You’d have to go around the swamp. Helo will be faster. It arrived from Asheville sometime yesterday. I’ll make some calls and get it ready to transport you.”
Beast muttered, Beast does not like to fly in belly of stupid bird.
And I didn’t like the way you hurt me when we shifted.
Beast had no comment to that one.
The drive to the New Orleans Lakefront Airport was ridiculous, traffic so dense it looked like Mardi Gras. I was pretty sure I’d hate Mardi Gras. I had successfully avoided the biggest drunken festival since the Roman Bacchanalia by being out of town each year, but this was nearly as bad. Maybe a soul music event or a blues or . . . whatever. New Orleans had a party every week. This one had brought out the early drinkers, the still-up-from-last-night drinkers, and the t
wenty-four-hours-a-day drinkers.
By the time Shemmy and I and the other two SUVs in our small cavalcade made it to the private airport, I’d had plenty of time to think about the implications of Leo being back, alive, and sane. Potential pitfalls and possible problems had played tag in my brain and left me both satisfied and uncertain. Bruiser had warned that Leo might want his city back if he rose sane, and if Leo wanted NOLA, he could have it. That one was satisfying. However, I’d still be stuck with the Dark Queen job. I’d still be the Blood Master of Clan Yellowrock. And I’d still have a primo who was also about to be crowned the emperor of Europe, and who had once sworn to Leo. That was the uncertain part, as I wasn’t sure what relationship Leo and I would have, and that Leo and Edmund would have. When people’s positions changed, so did the relationships forged in the past. But there were no easy answers, and until I had the chance to sit down with Leo, I wouldn’t know anything.
We arrived at Lakefront to find Bruiser, who had beat us there, and the helo, waiting and ready to go.
Mate, Beast thought, and she rolled over inside me as if exposing her belly for Bruiser to scratch.
Down girl, I thought at her.
I waved to Shemmy, dashed over, strapped in, and put on headphones. Takeoff was fast. Once we were in the air, I said to my sweetie pie, “Just so you know that I know—I accept I need protecting because I have too many enemies, and if I’m killed, y’all will be too.”
Bruiser pulled his mic to the front and said, “Yes. Your life, much like Leo’s life once upon a time, is the only thing keeping our world stable and our people safe. I promise to talk to you more so your freedom is protected.”
“Okay. For now. But we both know that Leo being back changes everything.”
“And so does your inability to shift and live.”
We didn’t talk much the rest of the flight and set down in the middle of a deserted street at dusk. There were no other inhabited houses on the street, which was odd. As if knowing my thoughts, Bruiser said, “Amaury bought all the homes on the street. He kept them up as did Leo, but they have been unoccupied for more than a century.” He took off his headphones, unstrapped, and patted the pilot on the shoulder, which seemed to be a sign that he was to wait. The helo began to power down, and I followed Bruiser from the helo, both of us doing the duck-and-scuttle move up to the twelve-foot-tall front gate.
The “estate” was really just a big old clapboard house with a tall privacy fence and a gated drive. Bruiser and I stood together as he rang an old-fashioned doorbell, a shrill three-ring-burst loud enough for us both to hear from outside. Minutes later, the helo was mostly quiet, and a blood-servant opened the door in the gate.
Her mouth fell open. “Primo,” she said, sounding awed. “We are honored.”
I felt Bruiser stiffen. It was too dark to see, so I pulled on Beast’s night vision and made out a dark-haired girl dressed in a sixties hippie tie-dyed T-shirt and bell-bottomed jeans. She wore a bandana headband, feather earrings, her hair was pulled back and braided, and she was barefoot. And she smelled strongly of weed. Okay. Interesting.
Also interesting was that Bruiser didn’t correct the primo comment. Instead, he said very gently, “RoseBud, I’m happy to see you again. I realize that Malita and Soledad are not expecting company, but do you think they might welcome an old friend?”
“Well. Sure.” RoseBud stuck the tip of her braid in her mouth and chewed on it while she thought. She looked at Bruiser again, and her eyes lit up. “Primo! It’s so good to see you. It’s been forever! Come on in. We’ll have a banquet!”
“I am not here to drink from your charges, my dear,” Bruiser said as we stepped into the yard. RoseBud closed and locked the gate. “I am here to ask of the old stories.”
“Oh.” RoseBud’s face fell. “They’ll be happy to see you, Primo. And I know that they’ll remember you. We spoke about you yesterday, and I showed them photographs to remind them of you. But they aren’t . . . they aren’t real . . . with it. It’s gotten worse in the last few months.” She glanced at me, wrote me off as unworthy, and raced ahead of us to the big green-painted house ahead. Her braid was still in her mouth.
Bruiser frowned after her but led the way. “RoseBud and five other blood-servants have cared for Soledad and Malita for over fifty years. It may be time to bring them back to New Orleans and let others take over.”
I didn’t say Ya think? but I considered RoseBud’s actions and Bruiser’s reactions. I knew that drinking blood from bat-poo-crazy vamps had deleterious effects on humans and even on other vamps, and that vamps drinking from drunk humans also got drunk, but this looked really odd. RoseBud had disappeared inside and left the front door hanging open in a total lack of security. We stepped inside. It was pitch dark. Bruiser turned on lights old style, by pulling metal chains. The house looked as odd as RoseBud had acted. It hadn’t seen a coat of paint or a new rug or refurbishing in fifty years or more. Everything was rotting. And I started sneezing from the clouds of ganja smoke. Bruiser took the lead and I followed, twice meeting the eyes of heads hanging on the walls and perched on shelves—dusty taxidermy of boar, deer, and turkey.
In the kitchen, things got weirder as we interrupted breakfast. Two vamps were drinking from two humans, the people stretched out on the huge farm table, a vamp sitting at either end. Unlike most feedings, there was nothing sexual about this, but there was also nothing neat. There was blood dripping here and there as the old vamps, each one with three-inch-long fangs, both dressed in frilly nightgowns, slurped. Ick.
The female vamps looked up when we entered, and one waved. Clearly, neither recognized Bruiser. When they were done with breakfast, the humans rolled off the table, and two others cleaned up the mess, which smelled too sweet, not quite fresh. More ick.
Bad blood, Beast thought. Do not eat sick-blood humans or vampires.
RoseBud said, “Senorita Omo and Senorita Martinez, we have visitors!” And then RoseBud lit up a joint the size of a blimp and started puffing.
Both vamp women came forward to Bruiser and stared at him from up close. They looked young but moved and acted like an old doddering couple. Bruiser said, “Malita Del Omo and Soledad Martinez. It is I, George Dumas. May we speak in the library?”
At the mention of his name, both vamps threw their arms around him, smearing their bloody jaws all over his shirt front. There was a lot of Spanish and French chatter as they pulled him by the hand into the dark hallway nearest. I followed, yanking on lights as we moved. As dusty as the rest of the house was, the library was pristine, with leather-bound books from floor to ceiling, leather furniture, wood floors, and a tea table. A coal fire burned in the fireplace. I didn’t think I had ever seen a coal fire, and I wasn’t impressed at the faint heat it put out. The three of them sat on a sofa, the two vamps on either of Bruiser’s sides, and since they were still fully vamped out, I positioned myself out of the direct line of sight and pulled two wood stakes. If I needed to rescue him, I didn’t want to kill the old vamps.
After they chatted a while in what sounded like a mixture of European languages, Bruiser switched to English. “My dear friend, Malita. Do you recall the events surrounding the banishment of Adan Bouvier and his primo?”
As if they didn’t even see me behind the sofa, the two vamps bent close together in front of Bruiser and whispered in Spanish. Bruiser glanced at me and smiled fondly at whatever they were saying. The two separated and Malita said, “We were forbidden to speak of that night. But if you will send us new blood-servants, we will tell you what we remember.”
“Agreed,” Bruiser said gently. “Your servants have served long. They deserve a respite.”
The two female vamps launched into rapid Spanish, a back and forth, often overlapping dialogue, which caused Bruiser’s fond amusement to fade until all that was left was a bitter reek of sadness. He patted their hands. He hugged them. They began to rock back and f
orth as they talked. They reached across Bruiser and held hands, as if seeking comfort. Bruiser murmured what sounded like, “Lo siento por eso. Estoy triste por esto.”
Finally they fell silent. RoseBud appeared in the doorway, carrying in a tea set on a tray. She poured tea for the two vamps, ignoring Bruiser and me, which was just as well, as the tea set and cups looked as if they hadn’t been washed in years.
“RoseBud,” Bruiser said, “you and three of your housemates will pack and be ready to depart at dawn. The other two at the next dawn. Six new blood-servants will replace you. You have served in isolation long enough, and will be brought back to the Council Chambers. You have done well.”
RoseBud threw her arms high, jumped up in the air, and squealed wordlessly. Then she sped down the hall, shouting to her other blood-servants. Moments later, Bruiser and I were in the helo heading back in the dark to the private airfield near NOLA. We didn’t speak, and I figured Bruiser was processing all he had learned.
Beast thought at me, Was sick old human blood-servants and sick old vampires. Should be pushed off of high cliff, like rabid foxes.
Sick like the flu sick? Like the vampire plague sick?
No. Smelled of brain sick. Like old human with bad brain but . . . different.
I wondered if Bruiser had understood that. If not, our conversation was going to be a bad one. Sleep pulled at me as the vibration rattled my bones.
We landed at the private airfield and duckwalked to the waiting vehicle, which was the limo this time, not an armored SUV. Once inside, Bruiser gave Shemmy instructions and raised the privacy partition. As the vehicle began to move, Bruiser opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. He sat back in his seat, sipping, looking pensive in the dim lights that filtered through the dark window tinting. As we turned away from Lake Pontchartrain, Bruiser said, “You told me about the ceremony when Ka became Onorio. You described the room with the concrete floor and an iron witch circle set into it. About Adan stabbing Ka and draining her to death.” He went silent, staring into the night, his elegant fingers turning the stem of the glass around and around, the wine tilting slowly inside the glass.
